


F****** Unicorns: A Gift for MaryRoyale

by TarnishedArmour



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hermione Granger/Multiple, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedArmour/pseuds/TarnishedArmour
Summary: My entry for the 2015 GE Gift Exchange entry for MaryRoyale using all 5 of the given prompts in a way they were never intended to be used.Originally posted on Granger Enchanted.  *sniffle*Beta'd by the lovely AuntieL.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter 'verse in any way, because copies of the books and movies don't count. I am not JKR, WB, or any other person entitled to make $ from these characters or the 'verse, and I don't. Make $ from it, that is.

“Oops.”

Hermione cringed. That was a word that _no one_ working in the Unspeakable Laboratories at the Ministry _ever_ wanted to hear. Thankfully, it wasn't a voice she recognized as one of her responsibilities, so she would happily let the project lead for that particular section take care of the dreaded one-syllable portent of doom. 

She still remembered the last time Harry had said it. He had just transferred over from the Aurors, tired of chasing those naughty wizards and dragging them back for justice at the risk of life and limb, of seeing those same naughty wizards walk off smirking, wrists properly smacked, just to go back and do it again. He'd started in her section, ironically the Prophecy Room – Silver Level. He'd just been handed his first Silver Prophecy. He dropped it. The evacuation and subsequent explosion had taken _weeks_ to clean up. Her desk had never been the same since.

Next to her, Harry winced.

“Lovely. Do you think we'll have to evac this time, or is it a local fuck-up?”

“I really wish you wouldn't use profanity in the professional setting,” she replied primly. At his gobsmacked look, she snickered. She was known by all and sundry to cuss like the proverbial sailor when things went badly. People wisely avoided her when the low and low-level four-letter words began. Her words wouldn't stay low and low-level for long. One witch, who spent days at a time in the Arithmancy Lab, swore her ears actually started bleeding the last time Silver Lead, Hermione's Unspeakable Name, went on a tear. “No, that's not ours. And without an immediate alarm...”

“Right. So, what did the Seeress have to give you today?” Back to work, back to life, back to reality. He hated that old Muggle song, but it fit. His reality, strangely enough, was bounded and determined by prophecies.

“Not much. I'm supposed to see her again tomorrow.” Hermione sighed. Her job was to liaise with the Unicorn Seeress, Glinda, and receive any and all prophecies generated among the unicorns. Glinda wasn't the actual prophet, but she was the one capable of taking the unicorn Dreamings and turning them into recognizable English. As prophecies went, they were considerably more reliable than the human version, though they were immediately and considerably more dangerous for the Silver Project Group. Silver Prophecies were handled exclusively by Hermione's group of Unspeakables, and she, for reasons she'd rather not consider, was the only one of her group the unicorns found acceptable.

Yes, Hermione Granger had made it to twenty-seven years of age as a virgin. It wasn't that she wasn’t willing, or at times nearly insane with wanting. She just hadn't found the right man.

“I can go,” Harry offered quietly.

Hermione shook her head. “No. I'll go. I'm just getting...irritable.”

“Merlin forbid that Hermione get irritable!” he teased, letting the moment slide by. She hated that she was the one working with the unicorns. It was usually the duty of the most recently hired Seventh-Year interns, and for good reason. The last several hadn't qualified, damned promiscuous brats.

“I'm just ready to be done with the Silvers,” she admitted.

Harry didn't know quite what to say to that. _Don't worry, love, you'll get shagged rotten soon?_ She'd hex him seven ways from Samhain, and he'd deserve every one of them.

“What would you like to work on instead?” he asked. “After all, we do have a fair amount of adventures with this group. What was the last tally? Seventeen new world-saving events in the past year lone?”

“And thirty-five minor adjustments of potential spawning of evil,” she confirmed, sighing again. “Oh, to hell with it. We're stuck until the Seeress gets back with me tomorrow, so we may as well go out and enjoy the afternoon.”

Harry gave her a wide grin, stood, and announced to the industriously working group, “Oi! You lot! Knock it off until tomorrow. Our Queen of Silver-ness has spoken!”

Hermione's group scattered like startled quail.

“You moron,” Hermione griped, grinning at him. Yes, an afternoon off was just what she needed. She collected her beaded bag, carefully re-beaded and updated to be more of an everyday style, and headed out, most of her life literally in her hand.

***

She really should have been paying attention as she left the employee lifts. How in the name of Morgana she had managed to miss the sheer _presence_ of Lucius Malfoy and run smack into him, knocking her nose on his surprisingly firm chest, she would never figure out. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger, he purred, turning her name into something indecently delicious. How did any manage G's like those? “Are we taking a poet's day?”

“As it's Wednesday, decidedly not,” she replied. She did _not_ just look up at him through her lashes. Never happened. “There was nothing left this afternoon, so I took the liberty of letting my section go home a little early today. What brings you here today? The Sessions aren't until next week.”

Lucius smiled. He always reminded her of the cat who got the cream when he smiled at her. “No, nothing for the Wizengamot today. I am, though, interested in your thoughts about the latest bill for reworking the classification criteria for Beasts and Beings. There are some interesting implications for werewolves and house elves especially.”

“It made it through Committee?” she breathed. Never in a million years did she think that Remus's Bill would make it past the submission stage.

“Through Committee and it's up for adoption, as well as the subsequent revocation and repeal of some of the...older laws.” He looked away for a moment, then turned his attention back to her. “Would seven tomorrow evening do?”

“It would be wonderful – but what do you need from me?” Lucius was a brilliant politician with the silver tongue of legend. She suspected he hadn't just kissed the Blarney Stone, but wined, dined, and made love to it. He had nearly talked Harry out of the prophecy, after all, and had certainly talked his way out of Azkaban after Voldemort had been destroyed.

“Your perspective on sentience, you thoughts about duality of nature, and your understanding of logical rebuttal to rampant idiocy are but the first that come to mind.”

“I take it there will be opposition.”

“Stiff and vehement,” he confirmed, noting the sorrowful tinge in those unusual cinnamon eyes. “If you could join us for that Session - “

“No.” Voice flat, eyes empty – no, that she would never do again.

“Your voice is more influential than you want to believe, Hermione,” he murmured, caressing the syllables of her name so that it felt like his hands were running over her body.

When the hell had she gotten so desperate for a man? Lucius? He was still married – though that did seem more of a formality these days than anything else.

No. Bad thoughts. That way lie madness and deceit, and, maybe, finally, a good, sweaty shag.

Damn!

“It was a fucking circus, with about as much in the way of actual good done in the end. I won't be a party to faffing about with time and real problems the way of that group of old codgers.” It was enough of a distraction that she was able to focus on the problem again, and not the one that was twitching between her legs all of a sudden. Fucking hormones.

“I do hope you don't include me with that descriptor,” he protested.

“Of course not. You're one of the few who manages to get anything worthwhile done.” Hermione sighed. She was doing that a lot lately. “I suppose it's just the way everything still seems backwards and so damned patriarchal,” she admitted. “I'm much more used to a level playing field, when it comes to gender lines.”

“There is little gender inequality in the wizarding world. I fear I do not take your meaning, my dear.”

Hermione shook her head. It's so many things. So many little things that, unless you're used to a different way, it seems perfectly alright, but the little permissions, the subservience of it all...”

“Ah. It is true that not much has changed in that regard since the Regency, though there have been many improvements since Victoria's regression.” He glanced at the lift, now back again at the main entrance and smiled. “I shall be late, Miss Granger. You are a wicked influence on my schedule.”

“I think your schedule and you will survive quite nicely,” she returned, and, no, she wasn't looking at him through her lashes again. She wasn't flirting. Really.

And she wasn't ruining her knickers at a completely inappropriate rate, either, for a chance meeting in the Atrium. Ron had been right: she was Cleopatra reincarnated.

“I dare say we shall” he murmured. He lifted her hand and kissed it in parting. “Until tomorrow, Miss Granger.”

“Until tomorrow, my Lord,” she replied, using his formal title for that formal farewell.

The smile he gifted her as he stepped into the lift took her breath away.

***

“Took you long enough,” Harry teased as she finally Floo'd home. Grimmauld Place was back under a Fidelius Charm, courtesy of herself, and Harry was his own Secret-Keeper.

“Ran into Malfoy in the Atrium.”

“The elder or the miniature?” No, no love was lost between Harry and Draco, though they no longer went out of their way to antagonize one another.

“Elder. He wants to pick my brain for Remus's Bill.”

“Holy fuck. It went through,” Harry breathed. He let out a whoop more suited to a Quidditch match than the kitchen, grabbed her, spun her around, and then proceeded to hug the life out of her.

“It's before the Session next week,” she gasp-muttered into his collar bone. He wasn't that much taller than she was – wizarding medicines could correct almost anything over time, including early malnutrition and nutrient deficiencies that were the casualties of war and teenage boys – and when he hugged her like this, she always ended up nearly chewing on his clavicle. It would be fun, if he actually _wanted_ her to chew on him.

And those knickers were getting a second soaking, dammit.

If she were honest with herself, thinking of Harry in less-than-platonic terms wasn't anything new. She'd thought of him in more romantic and sexual ways for nearly ten years now, though she'd never admit it. He thought of her as his sister, and that was that.

Why now? What was so important about now – and she wanted to blame the unicorns, but given their predilection for virgins, it sounded more than a little stupid to try.

She refused to be stupid, even in the privacy of her own mind.

“But there's a chance,” Harry whispered, loosening his grip just enough that she could wrap her arms around him in return. “A chance.”

“Yes,” she said, getting comfortable. There was nothing like holding Harry for getting comfortable.

“Ron’s coming over with Hannah,” he said, dragging her back to reality. “Saturday. I think he's finally going to ask her.”

“Good on him,” Hermione said, smiling. She and Ron hadn't worked out – a retarded flobberworm could have figured that one out – but they were friends, first and always. No small part of that had been the sex, or lack thereof. He wanted to. She hadn't felt right about it. The end result was a swift return to “just friends,” which was a much better fit for both of them. After the war, it was less volatile, less frictive, and much more relaxed friendship they shared. He knew who he was, now, and so did she. He and she did not make a good “we,” but they were great pals.

Harry and Ginny's post-war relationship hadn't gone so well, not in the active or the destructive phases. Ginny still wouldn’t speak to him, and, as for Harry...no one mentioned the redhead in front of him, not even her family. Fortunately, her Quidditch career with the Banshees was based out of Ballycastle, Ireland, so the twain ne'er need meet. Molly even went so far as to send messages saying that Harry perhaps oughtn't come this weekend, given how hectic things were. It was her way of saying her daughter was back for a visit, and they would all like to keep The Burrow standing, thank you.

Now, Hermione seemed to want Harry, and Harry was, in true Harry fashion when it came to women, oblivious.

She could lie with that.

Really.

She'd just need a few dozen more pairs of knickers.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione sighed as she put down the second day's worth of Silver Prophecies.

“So, in three years, something terrible will happen. That's...what year again?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“2010,” Harry replied, checking his calendar. “Around May Day...fuck.”

“Language,” Hermione reprimanded absently.

“May first, Hermione,” Harry said, voice flat.

“Well, fuck.” She just realized what day that was.

“Knew you'd see it my way,” he muttered.

“We don't know _what_ , though,” she tried to reassure him. “I doubt he – “

“He's dead. Forever.” Harry's eyes and voice were flat, lifeless. The battles, the deaths, the glimpse of the afterlife – it haunted him still. When he sounded like this, there was nothing of her Harry, her friend, in him. He was the unyielding Chosen One. He was also hiding something about that time when he was halfway to dead, and he refused to share it with her or anyone else. 

“Fuck.”

“Not in the mood,” Harry snarked back, coming to life a little with an ill-timed joke.

“So...we go read the regular prophecies, to see if – “

“No. I know it's your team, Hermione, but let this one come as it does, even if it's in dribs and drabs.” Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You're going back tomorrow?”

“Yes. There was more that she's working on. It's going to Hell, again, Harry. I feel it.”

“I know.” He looked back at their book. “What's this about the woman who holds the heart of hope?”

Hermione bent to tease out more information from the strange phrasing, but knew, somehow, that she would pull little meaning out of it. Not until she had more information and less cryptic bullshit. Unicorn shit.

No matter. It all stank.

***

“Oof!” Hermione ran into the wall. She held her nose, wobbled on her ridiculous heels – worn only because she didn't have to see Glinda the Unicorn Sadist any more today – and cursed softly. The wall was _not_ supposed to be there. She opened her eyes and saw the wall, which looked a great deal like wizarding robes stretched tight across a very large, very firm wizard's chest. Her nose was well acquainted with how firm – and her knickers realized quickly that she liked said firm chest a bit too much. Strong hands steadied her, and her knickers learned how much she liked that, too.

“Are you okay?” That low, gravelly voice drew her gaze up. The voice, face, and deliciously firm chest were instantly recognizable in Wizarding Europe. Marcus Flint, Quidditch player, reformed Death Eater, and all-around bad boy easily held her on her feet.

Damn, he was strong! And those hands were huge! She couldn't help but wonder if the old measurement system were true – thick as his wrist, long as his middle finger-tip to heel of hand – and if it were…

Was it hot in here? No. It was just her.

“My nose will never be the same,” she managed, even getting a bit of a teasing tone into her voice.

“I get that a lot,” he grinned back at her.

Hermione felt her stomach flip and butterflies kicked up a wild dance a fair bit lower. She refused to consider her knickers any further, except for the momentary, wicked thought that they were decidedly in the way.

“How's your mother?” she asked, knowing what the witch had done to save her only surviving son from a curse and Azkaban. Nearly ten years ago, Madame Flint had removed a curse from Marcus by turning it on herself, freeing him from the pain of a slow death deemed suitable by Bellatrix Lestrange for a “weakling blood-traitor-in-training.” Marcus served Voldemort because he was forced, but once accepted as a servant, the penalties for not wanting to be there were vicious on a good day, Hell come to Earth on a bad one. Marcus had had many bad days. His mother's sacrifice had saved him, but damned her to a slow, lingering death.

“She's on the pain potions all the time now,” he replied, his eyes clouded with pain. She knew him well enough, thanks to Viktor Krum's occasional party and Oliver Wood's frequent visits to beg for Arithmantical analyses of certain plays, to ask. He knew her well enough to answer, though she'd heard from others that he'd always admired her spirit, even if he would never say it to her. “It won't be much longer.”

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said, knowing there was nothing else to be done for Madame Flint or her only living relative. He put her hand on his wrist, realizing she couldn't come close to closing her fingers around it. Yes, she was on the small side of witches and Muggles, but this wizard was definitely on the large side of human and the giant side of wizard. “Can you come to dinner tomorrow?” she asked, wanting to give him some time without the stress of Quidditch groupies or his mother's condition over him. “At seven?”

“Yes,” he rumbled. In a land of light tenors, that deep, rumbling bass endangered more knickers than just hers, though perhaps not quite as thoroughly. He took his leave, disappearing into the lifts for the Sports and Games as she took the dedicated descending lift to her damnable Silver Prophecy room.

She shook her head, knowing what every witch in the United Kingdom, Ireland, Canada, and various other countries would say. Somehow, though, he had never made her nervous. Not even in school. Granted, their conversations had never been deep or long, but Quidditch's bad boy made her feel...safe. Warm.

Warmer than she needed to be, dammit.

She sighed and ordered the lift to the Minister's offices. She needed to see Kingsley and Percy about her budget.

Fucking accountants and their audits.

***

“Why am I being audited again? Silver Group has done more for _preventing_ chaos, anarchy, and economic disruption than any other single group in the Ministry – _including_ the Aurors!”

“It's the standard five-year audit, Hermione. I realize that you have done much during your time in the position, but it's just the scheduled audit.” Kingsley sighed and tried to make the inevitable bureaucracy more palatable, no matter that he hated it himself.

“What are they looking for?” she demanded. “What do I need to have to prove accounts and the like? We don't have meetings out and about town, and we work horrendously long hours when the Silver Prophecies dictate that it's necessary. Other than that, we've little outside the normal operations of any department.” Hermione wasn't buying the proscribed 'everybody endures it' speech. She wanted reasons and answers, not the standard political pablum stuffed down the throats of most department heads.

“Hermione,” Percy broke in, “if it will help lessen the stress on you, then perhaps I can get the Head of Accounts to let me know what it is that he needs prior to the time. That way, one person can work on the audit preparation while the others continue your work.” He paused a moment. “I believe your last report mentioned a new series of Silver Prophecies that dealt with a new threat?”

“Unspecified, unknown, and undivinable, but yes.” She sighed. Again. She really needed to stop doing that. “Something about a woman who holds the heart of hope and that it's all going to Hell in a handbasket again in 2010. Other than that...” She shrugged. “May as well ask a Magic 8-ball.”

“Would that work?” Kingsley asked, not familiar with the silly 1970s toy that her mother had kept, just for giggles. 

“Ask again tomorrow,” she deadpanned. At his confused look, she relented. “No. It's a multi-sided die with a set of pre-determined answers on it, suspended in liquid and then, when one asks a question and shakes the ball for an answer, the 'answer' floats to the top. Asking again tomorrow is one of many options.”

“Ah. And Muggles bought this as a method of divination?” Kingsley, though better than most, was truly perplexed by Muggles on a regular basis. Then again, given that some wizards collected plugs and batteries and most believed that ekeltricity was what ran Muggle things “like magic,” it wasn't really a surprise to her anymore.

“No. It was a game. A joke. Oh, Hell, just accept that it's a Muggle thing and let's move on.” 

“Very well. Percy will see to the auditor's needs. You continue working on the prophecies, and we'll come to your place as soon as we know anything more from the auditors.”

“That's fine,” Hermione murmured. “Have you heard any more about Remus's Bill?”

“Lucius Malfoy said it was a dead heat for Committee,” Percy said, checking his notes. “We've all been pushing it, though, Hermione. If it passes Committee...”

“Then only the Wizengamot left,” Kingsley said grimly. “Whatever gods that have ever existed, help us.”

“Amen,” Hermione and Percy chorused.

Hermione got up to leave, no more comfortable with the audit than before, but even less certain about her reaction to the two men. She hadn't had the same knicker-ruining reaction to them that she had had with Harry, Marcus, or Lucius, but she was definitely warmer and drawn to both of them. 

Considering her actions during the meeting, she had not only sat closer to them both than usual, she had moved even closer when Kingsley had come out from behind his desk to the intimate seating area. She hadn't flirted, but she hadn't kept it all perfectly business-based, either. Had she been imagining that their eyes skimmed over her legs and skirt a bit longer than usual, or that Percy's eyes drifted down to her heels more than once? 

Why had she worn heels? She hated heels.

Something was weird and wrong and she didn't like it.

Hell with logic.

She was blaming the unicorns.


	3. Chapter 3

“What in the ever motherfucking HELL DO YOU WANT AND IT HAD BETTER BE IMPORTANT!” Hermione screeched at the poor soul who had just knocked on her office door. 

“Eep!” came the answer, followed by the sound of scurrying footsteps. 

Hermione snarled at the closed door and turned her attention back to the drivel she had just brought back from Glinda the Fucking Moronic Unicorn Bitch.

The door opened.

Hermione looked up to blast the idiot for disturbing her again, and paused.

“Will you please stop scaring the interns?” Harry asked, an easy grin on his face. “Leave that a minute. There's something you've gotta see.”

“I've seen it all, Harry, and I'm sure it's much nicer when you've not just had a cold shower,” she snarked back, “but I actually have work to do, despite the fact no one seems to want to believe it.”

“I get it. You had a rough session with the unicorns today.” He walked over behind her and began rubbing her shoulders. “This is more important.” He waited for her to finish muttering under her breath, then sigh. “I promise, you don't want to miss it.” He leaned down, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and, in that voice he knew she couldn't resist – two full octaves lower than his usual medium tenor – “Please, Hermione. For me.”

Hermione groaned. Her knickers were pointless, really they were. She may as well just waterproof the inside of whatever she was wearing that day and go without.

“Fine. For you, Harry.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, kissing her cheek. He walked around the desk and held out his hand. “Allow me?”

“You are an idiot -- you know that, don't you?”

“No. Then again, I am an idiot, so how would I know if I knew it or not?” he teased.

“Some days...”

“You fucking hate me.” He grinned at her and she never had been able to stop her answering smile to that grin. “I know.”

“As long as we're both clear,” she said.

“Sorry, love, but we're opaque,” he replied, face serious and eyes dancing.

“Oh, bloody Hell. We're not going to have one of those conversations, are we?”

“Probably more than one, but I'll end it for now.” He smiled at her again, this time with unmistakable happiness. “Come on, love.”

Hermione took his hand and walked with him. At some point, he transferred her hand to the crook of his elbow and escorted her properly, something that always gave her a little thrill. Every time there was a door, he would open it, put his hand at the small of her back, and see her through first, never neglecting to slip her hand back into the crook of his elbow as they walked. It was silly and old-fashioned and some would say sexist, but it gave her that little thrill just the same.

“Wait,” she said, pausing at the doorway. “That's the Death Room.” She hated that room. Harry knew it, and no one had ever asked her to return to it. Until now. Until Harry. But...why?

“Yes,” Harry said, smiling at her. “Trust me.”

“Always.”

He opened the door. His hand settled at the small of her back. He guided her through, and –

“SIRIUS ORION BLACK?!?!” Hermione yelled, running forward.

“Hermione?” came the reply from that well-remembered voice. 

She crashed into the man she had known, tolerated, loved, hated, admired, and despised in various measures at various times – the man Harry had known as the only adult who loved him because he was Harry, son of Lily and James, and not the Saviour of the Wizarding World. For that alone, she would always love and honour his memory.

But he wasn't dead anymore. Those arms around her were real, and strong. His hair smelled like leather and whiskey and something that was just _Sirius_. It wasn't wet dog, either. She knew that scent. She had had it burned into her memory when he had hugged her, once before, at Grimmauld Place.

_She was scared that Harry wouldn't be allowed to join them. His relatives were horrible, Dumbledore was being even more cryptic than usual, and there was nothing she liked at all about the moratorium on writing to Harry, no matter the reasons cited. It felt wrong._

_Everything felt wrong._

_“What's the matter, Princess?” came the whiskey-soaked voice of Sirius Black from the doorway._

_“I'm worried about Harry,” she admitted in a moment of weakness. She immediately cursed herself for saying it, cringing. Sirius was as bad as the twins in some ways, worse in others._

_“We all are,” he began._

_“NO. Not all,” she snapped back, unable to tolerate the usual platitudes that were shovelled to the 'young ones' on a daily – or hourly – basis. “Not all,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “He saw_ HIM _in the graveyard. He saw Cedric die. He's...hurting. I could tell when he left, he was hurting, but he had to...to...”_

_She couldn't stop the tears any longer. She had been strong, stoic, unflappable for so long, just waiting, but she couldn't hold it back anymore._

_“I know,” said that slightly rough voice, much closer. “Let it out, love.” The words had soothed her, as had the strong arms that wrapped around her. “Let it out. Don't let it consume you.”_

_As he whispered those words, she cried, realizing that the pain, the stress of not knowing, all of it, had done just that: consumed what was left of Sirius Orion Black and left almost nothing of the man who had been._

_In that moment, she loved him, and wept for him, too. She never felt the tears that fell into her hair, but she remembered feeling him shake a bit, and the top of her head had been damp when she brushed her hair before going to bed._

Hermione leaned back and looked up at him. His eyes were warm, dark grey, full of life and laughter.

“You're not...” There was no good way to end that sentence, so she let it fade.

“Madder than a hatter any longer?” he grinned down at her. “No. Don't know what happened, really, but whatever damage had been done to me in Azkaban has been reversed. Hell, I don't recall much of anything after I fell in.” He hugged her hard again, then let her go. “But then, I hit the ground suddenly, and someone said, 'Oops,' and I woke up in a bed and was pumped full of potions. They gave me my wand back, declared me alive – I told them I was, multiple times – declared me not possessed – I told them I wasn't, also multiple times – and returned all of the property they'd taken when I was thrown into prison.” He shrugged. “I'm moderately wealthy now, but Harry received all of the Black properties and vaults, so – “

“Um, there was just Grimmauld Place,” Harry cut in. “And only one vault.”

Sirius stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “Right. That's right. I put them in my cousin's name.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but which nutter did you choose? The blondes, the brunettes, or the wild-eyed bitch?” Hermione's delivery made Sirius blink.

“What? No, none of Cygnus's girls. My other cousins.”

Harry and Hermione looked at one another, then Sirius. “What cousins?” they chorused.

“Where's Bill Weasley?”

“Fuck me,” Harry groaned. “I forgot that Arthur's mum was a Black.”

“Yes, she was, and no, thank you for the offer,” Sirius replied. “Now, we're off to see the Weasleys...”

“Do not start singing,” Hermione warned, already mentally putting that sentence to the music of the _Wizard of Oz_. 

Harry snickered. Sirius grinned. Hermione groaned. She was immediately swept up by two men who were, most likely, certifiably insane, and she didn't care what the professionals said about either of them. 

“Weeeee're off to see Bill Weasley, the wonderful Weasel-ly Wolf...”

Hermione wasn't skipping with them down the halls of the Unspeakable Laboratories. She was just keeping up. Really.

And Sirius didn't smell _that_ good. Or feel _that_ good. Or sing _that_ well. 

Nope. No attraction there at all.

Her knickers disagreed.

***

“Sirius?” Bill said, eyes wide as the trio skipped – singing something about being ‘off to see a weaselly wolf because of the wonderful things he does’ – into his office. He stared in amazement at them, not so much because Sirius was alive, but because Hermione was skipping and singing with them. “Er...Hermione? Do you need to sit down? Perhaps a cuppa? With brandy in it?”

“Hm? Oh, no. Thank you, though,” she said, grinning and slightly out of breath. “Sirius is back. He needs to see you about some property transfers.”

“Me? That's the purview of the tellers upstairs. Why do you need me?”

“'Cause I transferred everything into your name, except for Grimmauld Place. Didn't want anyone to get their hands on it, you know. Let's see...it's vaults numbered 553, 2791, and 7 that we need to go to. Don't get excited about seven, though. Mostly full of mouldering old stuff.”

“Wait...you transferred...all...of the Black wealth into my name? And one of the vaults is a single-digit vault? As in the original investors? In _my_ name?” Bill's voice was rising word by word, and by the end, he had reached a truly impressive volume. 

“Nice,” Harry said, wriggling a finger in his ear. Bill's office was rather small for such volume. “A little light in the lower registers, but with a few proper breathing exercises, and some breath support, you could be belting out commands as well as Kingsley.”

“Thanks,” Bill returned absently, “but that's not an answer.” He turned to Hermione. “Some sanity, please? Just a smidge?”

“Sorry. Welcome to my crazy life.” She grinned back at him a moment, then asked, “Where are Fleur and the kids?”

“In France, with their Grandmère and Grandpère. Victoire and Dominique are demonstrating pure Veela traits, and Louis definitely has the charm.” He sighed. “Been quiet back at the cottage. Can't wait for them to come home.” Young Veela had to learn control at a very young age or they would either burn out and die from magical over-expenditure or they would drive ordinary witches and wizards insane with need/want/lust/greed and ultimately die as victims of said need/want/lust/greed. Victoire and Dominique, at seven and five, were quite precocious young Veela if they needed to control the allure so soon.

“Ah.” There wasn't much to say about that, really, especially nothing a father would want to hear. What could one say? _Glad your girls are getting the training they need so they don't become husks of creatures, wither, and die? Glad your girls won't be kidnapped, possibly raped and abused, then used by their captor to gain whatever material goods and power said captor desires?_ Better just to let it go with that and not provoke the quasi-werewolf. Much, much safer, too.

“So,” Sirius broke in, “you married the Veela. Nice. Is she as flexible as she looks?”

Hermione punched his thigh, hard.

“Ow!”

“Behave,” she reprimanded him. “Focus. Vaults and properties.”

“Right. Can we go to vault seven now? Simply returning that vault will start the cascade transfer to the rest.” Sirius grinned at Bill. “She's a tiger in the sack, isn't she?”

“You have no idea, and she's incredibly flexible...in every way you can imagine,” Bill said, walking out from behind his desk and grabbing his dragonhide jacket, the one specifically spelled to allow him to check single-digit vaults for cursed items at the request of the families. “I'll get a cart.”

“Lucky fucker,” Sirius sighed. “So, any good-looking birds around the office?”

Hermione didn't whimper or groan. Somehow, she had learned to deal with this odd wizarding behaviour: she changed the subject.

“Do we need to...” Hermione asked, not quite knowing how to end that question. There were so many possibilities, though 'run for our lives' was no longer one of them. Usually.

“Nah. Stay here. Oh, and don't touch anything. I booby-trapped my desk to keep the interns from trying to get ahead of themselves. It sets as soon as I leave.” He grinned. “Then again, it's been a boring week. Snoop all you like!”

Harry gave him a two-fingered salute, making both Bill and Sirius laugh.

Meanwhile, Hermione was busily telling herself that she was not interested in Bill.

Once again, her knickers disagreed.

Damn intelligent, sexy, capable red-heads.

Damn knickers.

Damn unicorns.

Definitely the unicorns' fault.

Dammit.

***

Thirty minutes later, Hermione had a dinner set up with Bill at seven. Harry, Sirius, and she were heading back to Grimmauld Place, a home that Sirius would not recognize, thanks to the extensive renovations that they had carried out after the war. Grimmauld Place was now cheerful, bright, and very cozy. 

All of these seven o'clock dinners had been scheduled while Hermione's mind was on other things – mostly how inadequate knickers were – and she had not realized that they were scheduled on the same night she was regularly meeting with Lucius Malfoy to discuss the alterations to Remus's Bill that could be beneficial, though looked like something the old crowd would appreciate and want to have as a continuation and oppression of the werewolves and house elves. 

Harry, of course, had dinner with her most nights, but this particular evening was a special celebration that would involve welcoming Sirius home.

The best-laid plans of mice and men are considerably more well-thought-out than the slap-dash plans of a horny witch.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione smoothed the skirt of her dress, the blue one Harry always complimented her on, and smiled into the mirror. Dinner with Harry and Sirius! Prophecies, dinner plans, conversations with Kingsley and Percy, and any number of other knicker-drenching distractions were forgotten in that one thought.

Dinner with Harry and Sirius.

Everything was perfect about tonight. She felt pretty. She would be dining with two good-looking and well-mannered men. She would have conversation about any number of things with a happy Harry and a sane Sirius. The fact she was mentally alliterating their names should have been an indicator of how close to the brink she was. Instead, she had no such thought and focussed on how she might manage to get at least a kiss out of one of them.

Smiling one last time at the girl in the mirror, ignoring the mirror's raunchy suggestion that she skip the dress altogether and present herself as dessert first – she only ignored it because it was far too much like one of those micro-fantasies she kept having lately – she floated down the stairs and met her escort, a smiling pair of black-haired wizards, in the hall.

“Shall we, my dear?” Sirius asked, eyes warm with appreciation for life and a well-dressed witch.

“We shall,” Hermione replied, smiling at him, then at Harry. And, yes, this time she would admit to looking up at them through her lashes. 

“This way,” Harry said, smiling at her. 

For the first time in years, Hermione felt truly free and joyful. She had been tangled up in adventure and prophecies and the usual getting drunk after making sure bad prophecies couldn't come true, which other people would call some form of stress relief after saving the world. Again. Now, though, she was just Hermione. With Just Harry. And Sane Sirius.

Damn. That wasn't alliterative.

Ah, well. A girl can't have everything.

They had just settled in for dinner when the knock at the door startled Hermione. Harry went to answer and found three arguing wizards standing on the doorstep.

“Er...Bill, Marcus, Lucius. What brings you all here?”

“I have a --” here the words dinner, date, and meeting jumbled together incoherently “--with Hermione,” came the responses, almost in perfect unison.

“Come on in,” Harry said, grinning. “We've just sat down for dinner. You're all welcome to join. The more the merrier, right?”

Bill, Marcus, and Lucius all looked at him as though he were mad, but none of them wanted to give up their scheduled Hermione time, even if they had to share. However mad their host may have been, they still followed him into the kitchen to visit with the lady of the house.

Before he could go into the kitchen, however, another knock on the door caught Harry's attention. He sighed, opened the door and found Kingsley and Percy on the doorstep.

“Let me guess...a meeting with Hermione?” His grin was positively wicked. This was better than _Passions_.

“Of sorts,” Kingsley murmured. “We have information she needs about the most recent...Silver.”

“Ah.” Harry motioned them in. “Right this way. You can join the rest of her entourage.”

Greetings were exchanged in the form of nods and murmured last names, a brief hug between Bill and Percy. In all, the men needed only hard liquor and cigars to make the front entry seem like an old-fashioned gentleman's club. The men turned and trooped into the kitchen to see Hermione.

“Forget a few guests?” Harry said, teasing Hermione in lieu of simply telling her who had arrived.

Hermione looked up and suddenly felt her breath catch. Nothing was coming to her – not words, not thought, not anything – and she felt light-headed and dizzy from the sheer amount of magic in the room with the men. 

“Hermione?” Harry asked, moving over to her quickly. 

Hermione reached out blindly for his hand, her pupils blown and her breath coming in pants. She turned away from the men filling the room and looked at Harry. 

“What's happening to me?” she breathed, half-panicked, nearly unable to form that thought as the men who had spiked her libido to nearly unprecedented annoyance levels all focussed on her. “Harry...help me.”

With that, she fainted.

Harry caught her, blinked, and then lifted her with a soft grunt. “Always looked lighter than she was,” he muttered as he carried her into the library. Something about being surrounded by books always made her feel better, though the chances of that happening while she was unconscious would require, well, magic. 

When Hermione was positioned comfortably on the couch, the men gathered and spoke softly, figuring out who was there, why, and when the appointment was made with Hermione.

Even though some meetings had been made more than a week in advance, no one was willing to leave. Something was keeping them here, and that something was passed out on the couch, waiting for answers that none of them had.

***

“Harry?” came the whisper from the couch. Seven pairs of eyes turned to Hermione and she felt her breath catch again.

“Going to tell me what's going on, love?” Harry asked, smiling at her, that sweet, gentle smile that made her melt.

“Can...just you...for a minute?” she murmured. Harry nodded in agreement and she watched as he cleared the room so they could speak privately. “Thank you,” she breathed in relief.

“What's going on Hermione? You've been a bit off lately, and I know it's not just the prophecies.”

“It's insane, Harry. Or maybe I am.” He properly brushed that aside and then motioned for her to keep going. “I can't...I'm...well, fuck. This is hard to explain.”

“Love, you know you can tell me anything.” 

“It's not that. Well, it is. It's just...” She closed her eyes, breathed in, then out, and said bluntly, “I desperately need to get laid, and I can't seem to control my thoughts or my libido. I want them all, dammit, and they're all here, and I can't fucking think, and I want you, too, and I know you don't like the idea of groups – “

“Shh,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.

“Not helping, Harry,” she said, nuzzling into that tempting clavicle. “Not helping at all.”

“Then maybe this will,” he murmured. He tipped her face up and pressed his lips to hers.

Startled, Hermione squeaked, then, as the pressure didn't ease but his lips opened just a bit, she felt her spine melting. She sighed, then moaned as the lips meeting lips became considerably more involved and included tongues and Harry holding her so tight she could barely breathe.

When he finally let her go, she stared up into his eyes, those brilliant, bright, dark emerald eyes with blown pupils and a look in them that she never, ever would have believed. 

“Harry?” she breathed.

“I've wanted to do that for years,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” she admitted, still thrown by the suddenness of his action. Of course, with Harry, most actions were sudden, unexpected, and dead-on accurate. It was one of his dubious gifts.

“Now, slow down and make sense of the rest of it for me,” he told her, settling them both on the couch.

“You really want to hear about how my knickers have been soaked through because of several men I never really considered before as sexual partners?” she asked dryly.

“If that's what you have to tell, then yes. Anything, Hermione. We established we'd do anything for one another years ago. No time for either of us to back out, just because it could involve you having sex with men who aren't me.” He brushed his hand over her hair, tamed as it could be for the evening. “Tell me.”

“It started about six weeks ago...” she admitted, telling him of her now-established weekly meetings with Lucius, meeting and setting up dates with Marcus and Bill, then the questions she asked Kingsley and Percy, and finally seeing Sirius again. She admitted that the attraction she felt to all of them was driving her insane, and that the prophecies were getting to her as well. “...and I'm not sure how much longer I can work Silver. I don't think anyone was meant to be around the fucking unicorns this long. I'm sure I wasn't, but there's a distinct shortage of qualified virgins, so I'm stuck. Fucking unicorns.”

“Actually, I don't think it was ever established that unicorns do reproduce sexually. I thought they did some sort of magic-meld and hatched their young.” He grinned. “Then again, I've never seen a pregnant unicorn in the herd.”

“You've visited the herd? Is it some kind of Saviour of Wizarding Britain thing?” She was sure he'd had many, many nights with many, many grateful witches, not the least of whom was Ginny-the-Cow.

“I'm, ah, uniquely qualified,” he admitted. At her stare of amazement, he admitted, “The playboy reputation is all a load of shite. I couldn't bring myself to touch the slags and grateful girls who just wanted to say they slept with me, and Ginny was after the Potter and Black fortunes. I was sure that the only witch I wanted didn't want me, and she lives just right down the hall.” He gave her that crooked grin that could – and had – led her into many, many crazy situations over the years. “And you know I love you. You've known it for years. I just...want to have sex with you, too.” He paused. “No. I want to make love to you until we're too weak to move. Not just sex. Everything. With you.”

“Oh.” Hermione's brain was whirling with this information. Harry loved her. He _loved_ loved her, not just friend-loved her. And she loved him right back. 

He smiled at her and they leaned in for another long kiss. Hermione was melting into his arms when the door to the library flew open and a low growl came from the door.

“Get away from her, Potter,” Bill snarled.

“I wanted the kiss, Bill, it's alright.” Hermione smiled at the unpredictable red-head and then back at Harry. “We love each other. The right way.”

“Doesn't matter,” Bill said, obviously struggling with the wolf. “He's too close to you. They all are.” He nodded to the wizards around the room. “Need to keep you safe.”

“From what, exactly?” Lucius asked, tipping his head to the side and giving Bill an only slightly supercilious look. “A dinner companion who wishes to discuss the political ramifications of various changes to wizarding law and the integration of several ideas from the Muggle world as well?”

“From everyone in this room who wants to lay her on that table and fuck her until she can't breathe,” Bill snarled back, eyes turning amber as he faced the older wizard. “And you're one of them, even if you pretend otherwise.”

“Alright, this has gone far enough,” Hermione said, her temper starting to bubble to the surface. “This is where we stand: Harry loves me, and I love him. As more than friends. Sirius is back and we were celebrating. Yes, I care for Sirius, too, and I am also attracted to him, now that he's not mad as a hatter. Yes, I do find Lucius attractive, but so does three-quarters of Wizarding Britain, which is moot because he is unavailable and quite married to an equally beautiful woman.” She caught Lucius's faint smile and closed her eyes so she didn't have to see the subtle preening. “Marcus is attractive in so many different ways, but he's never said anything to me less than appropriate and gentlemanly, at least not since school. If he is attracted, as you claim, then it's something new and unexpected. Kingsley and Percy are here for more politics and a few other classified things, and, you, Bill are married to a witch who would quite cheerfully gut the first woman who started sniffing around you, and I am not eager to be eviscerated. Now, tell me what exactly all of this has to do with you growling, Bill, and me fainting. Anyone?”

“I think...we may have some information on that point,” Percy said softly, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose. “And, if we're right, then this attraction is considerably more than just random.”

“Get to the fucking point, Percy,” Hermione sighed, not sure how much more that she could take.

“Well,” Percy said, hesitating, “how much do you know about the Knights of the Round Table, King Arthur, and Guinevere?”

Hermione did not have a screaming fit, but it was a near thing.


	5. Chapter 5

“Alright, this has gone far enough,” Sirius said, breaking into the fit that Hermione was trying to hold back and the surprise of everyone else. “Dinner with the history lesson, then hopefully we'll get to current events. Maybe some of the steak and kidney pie will help our dear wolf stop growling?” He gave Bill a pointed look.

Bill, knowing how close Sirius had been to a full werewolf, blushed and nodded, but managed to stop the wolf's use of his vocal cords to attempt to intimidate three former Aurors, two known and powerful Dark wizards, an Unspeakable, and his little bother. Brother. Right. Brother. With an R.

“We don't have enough for everyone,” Harry said, thinking. “Only cooked for the three of us.”

“No problem.” Sirius thought for a minute. “Reny!” he called. Grimmauld Place, connected through blood magic to the other Black properties and their attending house elves, was like a giant transmitter for the master's call.

CRACK!

A small, skinny house elf was standing before them in a tattered tea towel that had obviously seen better days many years ago.

“Master Sirius calls? Master Sirius? MASTER SIRIUS IS HOME!” The elf let out a squeal of what Hermione presumed was joy and flew at Sirius, wrapping his arms around the wizard's thighs that Sirius almost fell down. “Master Sirius, Reny has missed you! Every elf has missed you! We loves our Master Sirius. Oh! You is Master now, not Master Sirius. You is the Black.” The elf promptly fell to his knobby knees and began washing Sirius' very shiny shoes with tears of what Hermione thought was joy -- and his ears.

“Reny, thank you, that's enough,” Sirius said, voice controlled and quiet. He leaned down and patted the elf's head. “You are a very good elf, and we have need of your work.”

Reny stood, obviously proud and eager to do whatever Sirius needed. He waited silently for orders.

“There is a dinner on the kitchen table, but it is insufficient for our current guests. Add appropriate dishes to complement the meal, enough to serve our guests, set the table in the formal dining room, and check the wine in the cellar at Blackstone Keep for appropriate vintages. We will have a full course of wines, and include a fish course, a salad course, soup course, and the savory course, as well a dessert.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed at Sirius.

“Of course! Reny will call Bixy and Moffett to help!” With another _CRACK!_ the elf began his mission.

“Do you care to explain?” Hermione asked, frost in her voice.

“The Black elves have had nothing to do except maintain the estates for decades.” Sirius grimaced. “There's a small army in there now, not just the ones Reny mentioned. Bixy and Moffett will call their closest companions, relay the news, and they will contact their bosom beaus, and so on. There will be a dozen elves working on each task, which means, with the liberal use of elven magic, dinner should be served...” he paused, “now.”

Reny CRACKED back into the room, bowed formally to his Master and the guests, and announced in a surprisingly stentorian voice for the scrawny little thing, “Dinner is served.” He gestured to the library door and CRACKED away.

“I will never, ever, understand,” Hemione muttered as she took the arm Sirius offered to her. Harry followed a step behind.

“It's the nature of magic,” Sirius murmured in return. “Well, nature and a nearly hive-mind possessed by elves owned by a single family. No humans understand it, though I understand magical creatures who live in family and social groups do.”

“Right.” As they walked into the now gleaming and perfectly beautiful dining room – it usually doubled as a home office for spreading out strange things and had a healthy layer of dust indicating the rarity of use – Hermione smiled at her host/housemate. “It doesn't seem to matter how long I've lived in this world, it still just...doesn't make sense sometimes.”

Sirius smiled at her, walked her to the foot of the table, and pulled out her chair. “Sometimes, with the abilities that come with magic, Muggle logic and sense are more hindrances than helps.”

And with that, the gentlemen settled in, Harry to Hermione's right, Lucius to her left, with Kingsley and Percy taking the center seats, Bill and Marcus the seats near Sirius, and the resurrected Black took the head of the table. Harry had happily ceded Grimmauld to him again, though Hermione hadn't been there to see or hear it. She simply figured that it was the fact Sirius was alive and Harry loved her that had him sitting to her right.

Light conversation flowed as they enjoyed dinner together. It was when dessert was served – a chocolate concoction guaranteed to have Hermione in a pleasant buzz, even if what she heard was on par with some of the end-of-the-world prophecies she'd dealt with – that Percy's question was finally addressed.

“So, what do Arthurian legends have to do with anything?” Hermione asked the table in general.

“I hate to ask, but did you take the elective for Arthurian History?” Percy asked.

“Couldn't fit it into my schedule,” Hermione admitted, shaking her head. “Actually,” Hermione thought. “That was Chthulian legends. Arthurian and Celtic/Anglo/Saxon histories were seventh year, so I wasn't even at Hogwarts.”

“Ah. Well, I took the course, as did Bill,” Percy nodded to his older brother, “anyone else?” he asked, looking around the table. Hermione thought it looked like he was asking for support for whatever was coming.

Various affirmatives came from Lucius, Sirius, and Kingsley. Marcus simply shrugged.

“I heard the tales all my life, so I didn't bother taking the course. Mum was a history buff.”

“Right,” Percy said, taking a breath. “What _do_ you know about Camelot, Hermione?”

Hermione shrugged. “Idealistic and most likely allegorical retelling of the advent of Christianity in the Britons; the struggle of the Celts, Angles, and Saxons to accept the changes; the moralistic stand of the virtuous woman who is tempted and falls, betraying not only her husband, but her lover, who is his best friend; the symbolism of the Round Table being that of the beginnings of the ideals of chivalry and, in some ways, the introduction of changes in status based upon merit and ability as opposed to older methods. Basically, it's a set of Muggle fairy tales that have little basis in reality, unless it is the period of the Danegeld, which was about two hundred years of peace and prosperity before the Viking raids began.”

Everyone except Harry stared at her for a long minute. 

“Harry?” Percy asked, wanting his take.

“Lots of fighting, some morals to the stories, but mostly blood and guts. Cool table, weird enemies, and equally weird heroes. I mean, want kind of king marries a beautiful girl and then doesn't even fuck her? Bit nutty, really.”

Six wizards stared at Harry, then Hermione, then one another. At almost the same moment, they all began laughing so hard they couldn't speak.

Hermione sighed and concentrated on her dessert. When the hyenas recovered would be soon enough.

She would almost rather be dealing with Glinda, the Demonic Unicorn.

Almost.

Several minutes later, the laughter had died down to soft snickers every so often, and Hermione and Harry had finished their dessert, indulging in a truly sickeningly sweet conversation in the process.

“Right. Well,” Lucius snickered again, and recovered quickly. He cleared his throat. “That is not remotely close to the reality of the situation. King Arthur was, in fact, a wizarding king. Guinevere was a witch. The knights were all wizards and warriors of steel. The Round Table was not...whatever that was you were saying.” He paused. “It is easier to explain, and for you to understand if you will allow me to ask a few questions of you. There are certain wizarding traditions and beliefs involved that...I do not believe that Muggles would find acceptable. I admit I am uncertain of your own thoughts about these subjects.”

“It would be helpful if you would tell me what the subjects are,” Hermione pointed out. It wasn't the most polite phrasing, but she and Lucius had, thanks to several screaming matches and many more polite encounters, moved past propriety in their conversations.

“Sexual attitudes,” he clarified.

“Sex is good,” Hermione said automatically, causing several of the wizards unfortunate enough to be sipping their coffee to choke and cough. “Er, that's not...oh, Hell. What about sex?” she sighed.

“Polygamy, polyandry, and homosexuality.” 

“Let's not be vague,” Hermione murmured, blinking. “What about them?”

“In certain situations, all of the above are considered acceptable, and even desirable, though said situations have only occurred three times in the last two millennia. Guinevere was the last, and before her, Boudica. The other Queen for whom this was acceptable was a Celtic queen whose true name is lost to time, though there are Muggle legends about her, mixing the names of their goddesses and sidhe with those of humans and thoroughly confusing the information we do still possess.”

“Guinevere, Boudica, and a Celtic queen? Why are you focussing on the queens instead of the kings?” Harry asked, curious. 

“Because the Queen is the focus of the tale.” Lucius paused. “Perhaps I am not the best one to explain this as I have little knowledge of what you do know about wizarding society, and none of Muggle society that would be of use.”

Percy licked his lips, opened his mouth, then stared helplessly at his boss.

Kingsley sighed. “Apparently, being born in Jamaica to a British witch and wizard somehow qualifies me to speak of this.” He shook his head. “Very well. Over one thousand years ago, a prophecy was given to a witch who, through no fault or intention of her own, could speak with unicorns regarding prophecies. She translated these prophecies until the last six months before her twenty-eighth birthday. This witch, Guinevere, was then the focus of a prophecy: A time of prosperity and peace, of change made through choice and the desire to do more and better with what people had. A time of innovation and invention in every way. Of course, this time would not continue indefinitely, but it would live on in legend, planting the seeds of true, deep societal changes. _Magna Carta_ was one of the many results, though it took over four hundred years for it to come to fruition. Such a document was one of the things Guinevere and Arthur spoke of in their writings, and, no, we do not have many.

“As the focus of such a prophecy, as the woman who had endured such prolonged contact with unicorns, understandably a woman still untouched by any man – unmated, if you prefer – Guinevere was...primed and able to...” He took a breath. Let it out. “To be the first true Queen since Boudica took up arms against the Roman invaders. However, she was unbalanced. She needed several men to balance her, to give her advice and clarity, safety and the power to see her will done. You see, it was not Arthur who created the Round Table, the cadre of knights, or the chivalric codes of knight, noble, serf, and yeoman. Guinevere's stamp has lasted on this isle and the world for over one thousand years; Boudica's is still felt as well, though faintly. 

“Which leads us to something that, as Minister, I may say: You, Hermione, have been working with the unicorns. You, Hermione, are nearing your twenty-eighth birthday. You, Hermione, have sought balance in not one wizard, but seven.” 

Hermione sat there, shaking her head, refusing to believe a word out of his mouth. Her own, though was frozen. She couldn't form a word to save her life. Or her sanity. Or any of theirs. 

Kingsley rose. “Come with me, then, and I will show you the proof,” he challenged her. “All of you, come with me now, and you will see that Hermione is the Queen we have been waiting for.”

Hermione rose, dazed and uncertain. She would go, yes. She owed Kingsley that much. Damned if she would agree with him, though. She would go, but only to prove him wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

The seven wizards formed up around Hermione almost automatically. Kingsley led, followed by Hermione with Harry on her left and Sirius on her right. Directly behind her was Marcus, with Lucius, Bill, and Percy as eyes-behind.

Hermione, still on auto-pilot, followed Kingsley to the Floo, and was then directed to the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. She emerged into the familiar space and looked at Kingsley, her voice coming back to her.

“We're here,” she said as the last of the men came through the Floo and ranged around her, protecting her from whatever it was they thought would happen. Not that she needed it or believed, but this was the wizarding world, and strange things happened here. “What is your proof?”

Kingsley said nothing. He simply pointed to his left. Hermione turned and faced what should have been the hideous statue depicting brotherhood. Instead, there was a blank space in what was usually brilliant gold and ugly sculpting.

Frowning, Hermione's eyes tracked down as her feet moved her forward. She could sense the men behind and around her, somehow feeling their magic – each so different from the others – and accepting it as right.

She froze in place when she was halfway across the empty space. 

Where the hideous statue had stood was a large, simple, round table with eight of fourteen spaces filled in. In the center position was a delicate throne of crystal and silver beside a heavy gold and steel throne. Before the crystal and silver throne was a simple, delicate crown of silver, moonstone, emerald, ruby, and sapphire.

“No,” she whispered as she moved forward again, pulled by the sight and the brilliant glow that was calling to her. Beckoning. Seducing.

She was ripe to be seduced.

“Do you believe us now, Hermione?” came the sensuous purr of Lucius's voice behind her. “Take it, Hermione. Take the crown. Choose your King. Take your knights. We wait for you.”

Soft murmurs repeated the last sentence over and over again in her ears, blocking out everything else, even her own thoughts and the feeling that this would change _everything_.

One small, slender finger traced over the silver of the throne. It felt so right.

One delicate, feminine hand reached out and hesitated only briefly before grasping the crown.

“The Heart of Hope,” she murmured, naming the crown.

“She holds the heart of hope,” Harry repeated, walking over to her. He took her free hand and placed it on his chest. “The hope of all the wizarding world.” It was one of the things that was said of him, long ago – he was the hope of the wizarding world.

How clear it all was now.

The unicorns had chosen her, and through her, Harry had again been chosen. Her love, her lover.

Not her king.

“If I accept this, what will happen?” she asked the older men.

“No one knows,” Lucius admitted. “We will go to sacred ground. You will choose your king, mate with him, and accept your knights as your lovers and champions. There are most likely oaths and vows involved, but they will be...ancient, and as natural to the moment as it was for you to take up the crown.” He moved forward, capturing her attention with that magnetic presence and cold, Nordic beauty. “Accept your place, Hermione, as our Queen. As our beloved.”

Hermione felt her mouth go dry. She had words. Really, she knew lots of words. Multi-syllabic words, even. Somehow, gazing into grey eyes that burned hot and sure, they all seemed to evaporate with her saliva. Words, coherent thought, and all the moisture in her body had fled about two feet south and her knickers were, once again, rendered superfluous.

Delicate hands lifted the crown over her head. Slowly, she lowered the crown until it touched her hair. 

“So mote it be,” she whispered, closing her eyes and finishing the motion, settling the crown on her head.

She fell to her knees as magic tore through her, seven cries echoed the scream in her head. When she opened her eyes, she saw green and standing stones, smelled the sea, heard the cry of seabirds in the distance.

“Where are we?” she murmured, not realizing she had asked the question.

“My Queen,” said Sirius, smiling, “we are in what remains of Camelot.”

“Huh,” Harry said, cocking his head to the side. “Looks an awful lot like either Cornwall shore or the Outer Hebrides.”

“You could suck the mystery out of anything, Potter,” Marcus said, disgusted. “Couldn't just let it be, could you? Had to try to place where we are when _we're in Fucking Camelot, You Idiot!”_

Hermione was impressed with the capitalization she heard in Marcus's shout of disbelief. She would have picked a stronger word than idiot, but to each his own.

She looked at the wizards in front of her. Seven men. Seven competent, beautiful, sexy men, and she could choose any one of them to be her King…

“Wait.” Mystery, already bruised by Harry's observations, screeched to a halt from her sweeping arcs of majesty and slunk back into her hiding spot when Hermione's brain suddenly kicked back into gear. “Lucius, you, Bill, and Kingsley are married. Sirius is the head of the Black family and needs to marry for the bloodline. Harry is the head of the Potter family and also needs to marry for the bloodline, though that one is...was...relatively obvious.” If she chose him as her king, well, it would still be the obvious choice. “Marcus is in the same boat, and Percy is, from what I understand, a confirmed bachelor. How can I choose any of you to be my King? And if none of you are really available, who can I choose to be my King?” She paused a moment. “And what in the hell do I do as Queen, anyway? Am I like the Muggle Queen, or is this something more? Or less?” She shook her head. “So many questions. Anyone have answers?”

“Any man to whom you are attracted to the point of distraction – that would be those of us here, based upon the multiple appointments for seven this evening,” Lucius smirked at her blush, “and this is where the question of polyandry and polygamy come in. We, Bill, Kingsley, and myself, will remain married to our wives, no matter whom you choose as King. The others all have the option to marry, though you must approve their wives, as they will become your ladies-in-waiting.” At Hermione's blinks of surprise, his smile grew. “The wizards not chosen as your King will become your stable of lovers, the royal stud, if you will, and will marry as required for their bloodlines, though their loyalty remains with you.”

“Oh.” Hermione couldn't think of anything else to say to that explanation. He had mentioned that such things were acceptable in certain situations, and how the hell had she ended up in this situation? Oh, right. The Fucking Unicorns.

“Who is your King?” Lucius asked, staring at her with those captivating eyes. 

It took everything she had to break his stare and look over the men before her, all watching her with heat in their eyes and anticipation surrounding them.

Marcus was not a king. He was too physical, too much the fighter and perennial bad boy, and strangely too protective, to be the kind of leader that the wizarding world needed. He was a bodyguard if ever she had met one. Her focus changed to Harry.

Dear, sweet, loving Harry. He hated the spotlight, the fame. He was predisposed to make everyone happy as he could, and he hated to disappoint anyone, especially her. He would give everything he had, everything he knew, but it wouldn't be enough. The pain of failure would destroy them both. No, he was pure magic and her confidante for years. He was her heart as much as she was his. The wizarding world trusted him, too, and so he would be her lover and friend always.

Then there was Bill. He was brilliant, passionate, and everything she wanted in a man: she'd known that for years. Unfortunately, a certain Veela had gotten to him first, and there went her ideal man. Of course, he was her ideal before the werewolf had torn into him. She didn't care about the scars, but he was too animal now, too instinctual. He ran on his 'gut' now as much as he did his intellect. He would be the head of her security and the leader of any forces she needed to deploy. Yes, Harry was a fighter, too, but he was not really a strategist.

Sirius was, though. Sirius was a strategist, he understood the games and the players, but he was her link to the Old Blood. He could never be king because those who knew him wouldn't follow him, and those who followed him never knew they were doing so. He was able to see ahead, see the courses available, but he had no skill with people. Well, not that she had seen, despite his recent sanity. He was too much the loose cannon. Unpredictability was his forte, his defense, and his downfall. He would be an incredible lover, though.

Percy, well, she didn't understand that attraction, really. If anything, he was the opposite of all the other men. He was studious, followed rules, and seemed to take no pleasures of his own. He was pure self-discipline and seemed to have a peace and focus that she was lacking of late. He practiced strict personal applications of the ideals of self-denial and delayed gratification, both of which could become very interesting. He would keep her on track when she wanted to go haring off in a tangential direction. He couldn't lead himself out of a paper bag and irritated the hell out of everyone, including himself, most days. No, not Percy.

Kingsley was an Auror first, last, and always, despite his several years as Minister of Magic. He was politically capable, but his heart was in law and order, and always would be. He could lead, but he hated having to do so. He wanted more to be the one bringing real justice and real order to the chaos of the world. She would grant him that.

Her eyes returned to Lucius. Political, devious, difficult, stubborn, gorgeous, seductive, powerful, persuasive. She had seen him convince someone to completely change his mind about pending legislation, generate arguments the man then used in his speech in favour of the new legislation, and then get the newly converted to persuade _his own friends and faction_ to support the measure they had nearly protested in the Atrium, complete with signs and slogans. He, like Sirius, was a contact into the Old Blood, but he was so much more. He was known, loved and hated in equal measure by most, and yet admired for his ability to get things done even in the morass of wizarding politics. He was a leader in every sense of the word, and that had been true since long before the damned unicorns got involved.

She saw the slight smirk bloom into a smile as he stepped forward.

“I didn't say anything,” she said, irrationally unwilling to let him simply presume his way into her realizations.

“Didn't you?” he returned, forcing her to think of her actions, not her men. 

Had she said anything? She didn't think so, but…

_Her gaze moved slowly from man to man, then settled on Lucius. His name slipped from her lips on a sigh, a delicate wisp of sound nearly snatched away by the wind. He stepped forward, smiling._

“Oh.” 

Lucius stood before her, close but not touching.

“Am I your choice, my Queen?” he asked, the words touching something in her.

Hermione nodded in the affirmative.

“Say it,” he urged, his voice low and seductive, sliding into her veins like a delicate poison.

“You are my King, Lucius,” she said, entranced by his nearness, he magic pouring off of him, his presence.

Eyes triumphant, he swept her into his arms and kissed her as though he were dying of thirst and she made of water. Heat sizzled through her body and she pulled him down or herself up by his shoulders. She felt weightless, like she was floating, until she felt a soft surface under her shoulders and the heaviness of Lucius settling over her, keeping her attention firmly on him. It was working. It felt amazing, heat and lips and hands and where did her dress go? And how was she still wearing her crown in bed? And did it matter when his hands were there and his lips were stealing her breath from hers?

“Wait,” she said, panting. Something wasn't right. How had he gotten undressed? _When_ had he gotten undressed? “Lucius, wait,” she managed as his tongue did intriguing things to her ear and that spot where her earlobe met her jawline.

“Wait?” he said, lifting his head to stare incredulously at her. “Did you just say 'wait'?”

“Yes.”

“What in fucking hell for?” he asked, eyes almost comically wide.

“Something's not right,” she admitted.

Those wide eyes relaxed to their usual size and rolled. “You've no experience, Hermione. In a few minutes, everything will be just fine. Now...where was I...ah, yes.” With that, he turned his attention back to her jawline and neck.

“Lucius,” Hermione said, eyes fluttering shut as he found a perfectly delicious spot near her shoulder. She tugged at his hair when he wasn't inclined to listen. He ignored her in favour of licking the hollow at the edge of her collar bone. She yanked his head up by the hair and repeated his name firmly. 

“Really?” he asked, wincing. “This is how it's going to be? I just get started, and you keep distracting me?” He looked down at her, saw her frown and the expression in her eyes. His eyes softened and he rolled to the side, propping up on his elbow. “It's not just the fact you're a virgin, is it?”

“No,” Hermione admitted softly. “I...I think I know what's wrong.”

“Well, what is it?” he asked, sounding remarkably like the character Jareth in her favourite Jim Henson movie, _Labyrinth_ , when he was telling the goblins to 'well, laugh': irritated and exasperated that they just didn't get it. Apparently, neither did she. Literally and figuratively. She certainly wasn't getting any right now. Because she had stopped it. Why had she done that again? Right.

“I just...it feels like...” She bit her lip. “All of them should be here.”

Grey eyes opened wide and eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Well that is not what I expected to hear,” he admitted. “Call them.”

“How?”

“Simply call your knights to you. They will come.” He smirked at his phrasing. “Eventually.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Sex puns? Really? I expected better, Lucius.” 

“I was giving you better, but you got distracted.” His eyes narrowed as he turned her face to him and held her jaw to keep her from turning away again. “Your virgin's blood is mine, Hermione, no matter how much you may love another. You have chosen me, and I will have what is mine.”

Hermione's eyes were wide and she felt heat rip through her again. Trepidation battled with desire in her belly, and a wet rush flooded between her legs. “Yes, Lucius,” she murmured. _Oh, yes, my King_ , she would not say aloud, ever, if she could help it.

From the suddenly intense and wicked look in his eyes, she didn't have to say it. He could feel her complicity, and it pleased him greatly.

“Knights, come to me,” Hermione managed, still captivated by the man beside her in her...his...Camelot's bed. If this _was_ Camelot, really.

“You called, my Queen?” came several voices as six figures strode into the bedroom. As Hermione looked around, she couldn't see a door, so the entrance was doubly impressive.

“Er, yes,” she said, suddenly wondering how to explain why they were there. For some reason, telling them she needed them to witness Lucius sliding inside her for the first time didn't seem to be quite kosher. Telling them she wanted them all to be touching her at the time, well, that just sounded fucked up. 

She blamed the unicorns, not that it was doing any good. It just felt better.

Fucking unicorns.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione looked at her knights, then the man who would become her king, and swallowed hard. She had no idea what to say to them or how to say it, so she held out her hand.

Harry looked at her, at her extended hand, and stepped forward, taking it. “Tell me,” he murmured.

“I...need you all...here,” she managed. She could cuss like a sailor, describe anatomically impossible acts that included several common household appliances and even a dead fish in order to tell someone they were hopelessly idiotic, but she couldn't seem to say to her knights 'hold me' or 'touch me.' Somehow, Harry understood. He always did.

“We are here,” Bill said, his voice again at a low growl.

“Closer,” she managed, holding out her hand to him.

Marcus suddenly chuckled. When everyone looked at him in exasperation, he explained. “It's an old legend, that historians even in the wizarding world call impossible. I read about it, years ago. It was rumoured,” he said, moving onto the bed behind and sliding one arm under Hermione's shoulders, lifting her to lean against his chest as he spoke in her ear, “that the Queen did not simply choose her King and her Knights, crown her King, and then, later, take her Knights to her bed. It was rumoured that her Knights witnessed the coronation of the King.” When Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, he murmured, “The coronation of blood, binding her King and her Knights to her for all time. This coronation,” he continued, his lips now brushing her ear as the others crowded around and lifted her fully off the bed, their arms slipping under her back and thighs, “is said to have called the last of her knights to her, no matter where in the world they were. Her call, this magic, cannot be denied.”

“Oh,” Hermione whispered as she felt hands sliding under her back and legs, her arms reaching up and back to wrap around Marcus's shoulders. This, this moment with her knights touching her, with her king waiting for his crown, was so right that she forgot everything else. 

This was what she had needed for so long – this connexion and the feel of skin on skin.

When had they gotten undressed? The little thought skittered across the surface of her mind, but was quickly banished as Lucius knelt before her.

“My Queen,” he murmured, his hands trailing down her body, making her arch into his touch as the arms holding her supported her even then. Lucius's touch increased the feeling of safety, of rightness, and set her on fire.

“Lucius,” she whispered, “come to me. Come to me and take your crown.”

Her knights supported her legs, wide as they were spread, her back, and her head rested on Marcus's shoulder. She did not touch Lucius, not yet. He had to come to her, to accept what she offered to him freely.

For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his hands resting on her hips, thumbs pressing lightly against the delicate skin where tendons moved so close to the surface of her inner thigh. He knelt there, so close, resting on his heels. Then he moved to meet her, and she could feel triumph welling deep in her chest.

He settled himself in place, his eyes hot as he looked down at her.

“Hermione, take your King,” he murmured as he moved forward.

If there was pain or pleasure in that moment, it was lost as magic seemed to rise from the very stones and pour through her, and through her, into her King and her Knights. 

The only thing she would ever remember of that moment was victory and the look of a King truly Crowned by his Queen.

Magic pulsed around them, slowly fading as Lucius began to move inside her. Hermione reached for him, then, bringing his lips to hers. Her knights lifted her to him, letting him push deep inside her while she indulged in a kiss that spiked that delicious heat in her. She could feel Marcus sweating behind her and realized that this bond they now shared made them empathetic to the mating of King and Queen. They would come when Lucius did.

Lucius pulled her into his arms, lifting her fully onto him and out of the arms of her knights. She buried her face in his shoulder as he looked to the dark ceiling above them, face snarling as he fought to hold on.

“Come for me, my King,” Hermione whispered in his ear. Brown eyes glowed as her King obeyed. She heard her knights behind her, their cries of pleasure fueling her own.

A brief Cheshire-cat smile stretched Hermione's lips as the pleasure echoed through her body. She fastened her teeth on Lucius's shoulder and bit hard enough to taste blood as her body was wracked by magic and climax.

She lifted her head and looked at her king. 

Lucius shuddered lightly as he saw the bloody smile on the lips of his Queen.

The knights moved close and enveloped the royal couple in an embrace born of loyalty.

“What is your will, my Queen?” Percy asked softly as the magic of the night faded into darkness.

“Sleep,” she said, still smiling at her King. She touched his face. “Sleep, and then we will begin to plan for what comes.”

Lucius nodded, then kissed her bloody lips as he relaxed. With the knights supporting them, he and Hermione were lain gently on their sides, with Hermione cuddled close. Harry had somehow manoeuvered to be right behind her, holding her. 

Hermione kissed Lucius's shoulder, and murmured, “Not Dark, Lucius. Just wanted to bite for so long...”

Harry snickered. 

“You're next,” she warned her friend and beloved.

“So are you,” he replied, kissing her neck and slipping his hand over her breast.

“Too sleepy now,” she objected to his presumptive caress.

“Shut up and sleep,” Harry mumbled.

“Would you both just shut up?” came from several others around the bed.

Hermione laughed softly to herself and closed her eyes. It looked like the honeymoon had just started.

Now, who was going to get the morning coffee? That would be an interesting question to have answered. Later.


	8. EPILOGUE

Deep in a forest known only to a few people in Wizarding Britain, the unicorn gathered to listen to the words of the Stud. 

“It is done,” he announced. “Our chosen Queen has mated and accepted to her a King and Knights. We are ascendant!”

Cheers echoed in the form of whinnies and neighs and stomping hooves. 

“All is not completed,” the Stud cautioned. “Glinda, what do the most recent scrying attempts tell us?”

“The Manticore have nearly wiped out the Harpies,” Glinda whickered in response. “They are overbred, though, and the newest generation has fatal weaknesses to certain toxins and illnesses. It is their alliance with the Chupacabra that has become a problem. The American herds are being challenged daily, but so far have managed to stave off the worst of the attacks.”

“And the Reckoning? It is still coming?”

“In three years,” Glinda confirmed. “Most of the Muggle population will be destroyed, and magic will again flow free in the world.”

“Very well.” The Stud looked over his herd, growing again after nearly six hundred years of stagnation and mere subsistence in their battle for control over the world. The Manticores must not win.

“This human, this Hermione,” Glinda neighed softly, “she is dangerous to our goals.”

“She is intelligent,” the Stud allowed, “but she is not Unicorn. She cannot fathom the work we do in preserving this world for all forms of life.”

“She will begin to question these prophecies,” Glinda warned. “She was very close to asking questions that...would have required her execution.”

The Stud whickered in amusement. “She now has seven men to distract her, and six more will be chosen for her by magic that she funnelled through the Crown as she mated. How easily you forget the pleasures of the flesh, Glinda.”

“I have not forgotten, but she is not like the others,” Glinda neighed nervously.

“Come, Glinda. It is not like you to question me on this, nor to advocate so strongly for us to forfeit our strongest piece on the board.” The Stud walked forward to her and nuzzled at her ear. “You have forgotten, Glinda. But I will remind you...”

Glinda stood still as the Stud circled her. It had been so long...and she was in need.

Yes, the human woman could wait. She had...better things to do. 

And the Stud still felt so good when he rose up behind her…

***

Hermione stretched in her bed. Lucius had taken her virginity, but she had been quite busy over the last two days, making the acquaintance of each of her knights in the most...delicious ways. 

Harry was her beloved, of course, and when they touched it was somehow more than with the others, but the others were quite lovely, too. Bill was, predictably, an animal in bed, and Marcus treated her like she was made of fine-spun glass and feathers. Sirius teased and tormented her even while he made her laugh and screech in frustration. Kingsley overwhelmed her with his muscles and his surprising sensuality. Percy, though, was the biggest surprise. He seemed to worship her even as he took control of her and she allowed it. Lucius was the hot, powerful man she had known for years, and her obedient King.

Marcus swore she would have six other knights, and that she could call the ladies-in-waiting as she did her knights. That would wait, though, until she had spoken with the women who were already married to her King and her lovers. She had ideas for each of them, well-suited to their personalities. Marcus even suggested that the ladies would become lovers for all of the knights, and the knights studs for all of the ladies. 

The visions that danced in her head at that...watching Lucius and Narcissa, two of the most beautiful people in Wizarding Britain...seeing Fleur on her knees with Bill behind her...watching as Kingsley slid down the body of his wife, Sheila, and used that incredibly long tongue to make her scream his name...all the while, her knights would be pleasuring her…

A hand slid up her ribs and over her breasts. From the size and callouses, it was Marcus. 

“Good morning, my Queen,” he rumbled in her ear.

“Good morning, my Knight,” she returned in a husky whisper.

“What are your commands this morning?” he asked as he kneaded her breasts gently, bringing a rush of heat to her and a flood between her very sore thighs. 

“Mmm...don't stop,” she replied, arching into his hand.

“As my Queen commands,” Kingsley murmured, kissing her hip. “I will not stop.”

Whatever she thought she needed to do could wait, Hermione decided. She'd deal with the prophecies and the unicorns another time. Right now, she had two delicious men working on her pleasure – three, as Bill's mouth closed over her nipple and his hand began to knead the inside of her thigh.

Oh, yes, the fucking unicorns could wait.

For now.


End file.
